He presses his eye against the peephole and holds his breath without realizing it, the long corridor, the carpet muffling sound, the dim light flickering in the distance, and there, at the end, three slightly crooked figures, standing still but not quite still, that kind of movement that isn't quite human, a body there, a head slightly drooping, one of them takes a shuffling step and stops, and he feels his stomach clench, not from pure fear but from reality hitting him unfiltered. There's no screen, no HUD, no retry, just a wooden door and whatever's on the other side. He turns the doorknob slowly, millimeter by millimeter, careful not to make a loud click, opens it just enough for the body to pass through, closes it behind with the care of someone who knows that noise is now an invitation, and leaves with a light step, weight distributed, pistol in hand, magazine full, flashlight off, sights aligned, head down, eyes wide open. He knows, he remembers, a pistol can work up to about fifty meters if your hand doesn't tremble and your head cooperates, but that's not a shooting range, it's a building corridor with the wrong kind of people moving around. He approaches, one more step, one more, his breath too short, his heart wanting to race, and he pulls back forcefully, inhales through his nose, holds for half a second, exhales slowly, repeats, forces his body to obey, because if it doesn't obey, he dies.
He chooses the first target, the closest one, raises the weapon, aligns the sights, finger on the trigger, controlled pressure, the shot comes out dry, muffled by the suppressor, the impact hits his shoulder, his body jerks awkwardly but doesn't fall, just turns slightly to the side and continues, and he releases the low shot.
— Damn… fuck… calm down… it's not a game
He corrects himself instantly, takes another breath, raises his sights, tests, and fires, this time cleanly, dryly, tests, and his body goes black as if someone had flipped an invisible switch, falling without a second thought, just dead weight on the carpet. At the same instant he feels it, doesn't see it, doesn't hear it properly, but feels three projectiles returning, heading towards the ring as if it were a natural flow, and he doesn't even question it because he doesn't have time for philosophy.
The other two have already reacted; one comes faster, short and direct steps, the other comes dragging but coming, and he's already adjusting his breathing, inhales, holds, exhales, aims, fires twice in a controlled manner, the first misses by a graze, the second hits high, doesn't solve the problem, the beast continues, he corrects again, aims more steadily, tests, and knocks out the second one. The third is already too close, he retreats half a step, doesn't turn his whole body, just enough, fires once, misses, the second hits the side, doesn't solve the problem, the third clears, tests, and falls. Silence returns in a heavy way; he stands still for two seconds, only hearing his own blood pounding in his ears and forcing his breath to return to normal.
— breathe… control… that's all
He does the math almost without thinking, he spent four, got back ten, a positive balance, and that gives him a strange kind of confidence, not the confidence of being invincible, but the confidence of a system working, of a rule that responds when he gets it right. He takes a step forward, glances at the bodies quickly, doesn't stare, and immediately shifts his focus to the plan.
He goes to the first door, knocks twice quickly and once briefly, thump thump thump, holds it, listens, nothing. He goes to the next, repeats, at the third someone answers softly from the other side.
Is anyone there?
— Open slowly, quietly, without bright light.
The lock turns carefully, the door opens a finger's width, an eye appears, then two, a couple, a man and a woman, the man pale, the woman trembling with a kitchen knife in her hand.
— Keep it quiet, no shouting, I've already cleaned the hallway here on the 50th floor, but I don't know about the rest.
— We heard… you were the one who shot.
— It was me, silenced, making no noise calls more.
They nod quickly, out of pure fear but paying attention.
— Stay here for now, I'm going to sweep the floor, mark the empty doors, then we'll see how to put it together.
He closes their door carefully, discreetly marks the side with a pen, moves on to the next one, rings the bell, no one answers, marks it again, one more, one more, sometimes total silence, sometimes a whisper, sometimes nothing at all, and he mentally sketches who's alive, who didn't answer, who might already be gone.
In the middle of the hallway he stops and speaks softly to no one in particular, but he knows someone might be listening.
— Whoever is there and hasn't responded yet, don't open it all at once, respond first, no need to be heroic.
A door opens two inches further on, an older man appears, breathing heavily.
I know how to open doors… like… without a key.
He looks the guy up and down, doesn't judge, doesn't have time for old-fashioned morals.
So stick around with me later, I don't care if you're a thief or a locksmith, I care that you open things quietly.
The guy swallows hard and agrees.
Another door opens, revealing a woman with a construction helmet on her head.
— I work with structures… civil engineering… concrete, walls, that kind of thing.
— Perfect, we'll need it, the staircase is a bottleneck, we'll close that off with a door and locking mechanism.
He continues, cleans the entire 50, goes back to the beginning, breathes, looks at the fire escape, doesn't go down yet, first organizes the top, then quickly goes back to the computer, turns it on, types briefly.
— 50 partially cleared, some people are alive, 47, 43, 39 confirmed, I'll go down to 49, same pattern, two quick ones, one short one, doesn't open without confirmation.
Send it, hang up, go back to the hallway.
He goes to the stairs, opens them slowly, listens beforehand, nothing coming, just that distant echo of a large, overly empty building, goes down one flight, then another, reaches the 49th floor, opens the door with the same care, same routine, quick glance, similar hallway, worse light, heavier smell.
Focus… breathe
He repeats the pattern, advances, finds two more in the middle, one leaning against the wall, another coming from the side, he's more stable now, controls his breathing better, two clean shots, two unlit shots, no waste, feels the recoil of ammunition entering the ring as if it were natural, and doesn't waste time celebrating.
Knocking on doors, a pre-arranged signal, responses come faster now because the group is already letting each other know, people talking on their cell phones that he's there, that they shouldn't open the door haphazardly, that they should follow the protocol, and that helps, it creates coordination.
— civilian: I'm on the 49th, I heard you
— open slowly and stay low
A family, two adults, a child, he's already speaking frankly.
— No screaming, no loud crying, controlled breathing, we'll close the stairs and gather whoever can.
The child looks at him, he lowers himself slightly.
— Breathe like me, look, inhale through your nose, exhale slowly.
The child tries, calms down a little, and that already helps more than any speech.